Page 66 of The Witching Moon Manor
Nodding, Anne silently led him toward the threshold on the other side of the room, where Violet had told her she’d find the marking along the frame.
“Can you tell me what you sense from this?” Anne asked, her fingers hovering above the name etched in the wood.
Vincent’s eyes met hers then, and Anne saw questions flash across them as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud. She could already feel her spine straighten as she prepared herself to answer each one, persuading him to continue. But he surprised her again, turning to face the doorframe without a single comment and gently resting his palm on top of the carving.
Anne should have turned away, given him a moment as he began to work his magic. Before, she’d closed her eyes whenever he’d started to thread his spells together, trying to draw herself into the sounds and textures of the moment. But now, she was facing him and could see the way his features changed as he focused on weaving together an enchantment, the hard cut of his jawline relaxing and his lips parting as he murmured silent words meant to pull secrets from the very foundation of the house.
Eventually, though, the fragrance of cypress and myrrh faded, and Anne noticed the tension returning to Vincent’s shoulders, the blades pinching even closer together than they had before.
“What is it?” Anne asked, taking a step back, though what she wanted to do was place a hand on his forearm to keep him from pulling further away from her.
“The girl who touched this doorframe,” Vincent murmured, his voice tight. “Who was she?”
Anne’s heart began to quicken, but it was too late to turn back from the path she’d already started down.
“Philip’s sister,” Anne answered.
Vincent’s mouth tightened, and Anne knew he didn’t need to be able to read the future to know where their conversation was heading.
“I thought you were focused on trying to discover where the ring belongs,” he murmured. “But it seems your attention has been pulled elsewhere.”
Anne bristled at the silent accusation in his tone: that she’d neglected her duties as Diviner when the fate of the city rested so squarely on her shoulders.
“I already know where the ring belongs,” Anne announced, the strength of her words causing the picture frames along the walls to rattle on their hooks, scattering even more dust atop the baseboards.
Vincent stilled, staring back at Anne with such intensity that his own power caused the shadows in the corner of the room to stretch until they toyed at the heels of their boots.
“You know where the ring belongs,” he repeated. “And you haven’t thought to tell me.”
“I only realized yesterday,” Anne explained.
“Who does it belong to?” Vincent asked, taking the barest step closer.
Anne drew in a deep breath then, needing to remind herself that she was making the right choice.
“You,” she whispered. “It belongs to you.”
Vincent’s eyes widened, but then a spark of recognition flittered across his face, as if he’d been given an answer that confirmed a sneaking suspicion.
“You already knew,” Anne said as a sinking sensation gripped her stomach and threatened to pull her under.
Vincent was silent for a moment, but eventually, something in his expression broke, and the stiffness in his shoulders seemed to loosen.
“The possibility had crossed my mind,” he admitted before releasing a heavy sigh. “Ever since my uncle’s passing, the house hasn’t let anyone inside but me. I get the sense that it’s unsettled, holding its breath until something shifts into the proper place.”
That revelation startled Anne. Homes, especially those of a magical nature, enjoyed company.
“It let me in,” Anne countered, but then she glanced down at her gloved hands where the outline of the ring pressed against the fabric and understood what Vincent had already suspected.
The house had recognized the ring and welcomed her inside in the hopes that it might be returned.
“That’s what you think the ring’s power is, then?” Anne asked. “It gives the wearer control of the house?”
Vincent shifted his gaze, pressing a hand to his temple in a way that told Anne he was trying to decide how much of the truth to share with her. She could sense that there were still secrets lurking beneath the surface of their conversation, keeping them from moving forward.
“It’s more than that,” Vincent finally relented, his voice rawer now, more urgent. “Much more.”
“Tell me,” Anne said.
